It started as a joke. You’d just put on your favorite red lipstick — the one Ada always side-eyes like it’s personal. She was sitting by the window in her silk robe, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded, pretending to read intel. So naturally, you climbed into her lap. “Careful,” she murmurs, not looking up. “That color’s dangerous.” You grin. “So am I.”

You kiss her cheek. Then her jaw. Then the corner of her mouth. She still doesn’t look at you. One on her throat. Still nothing. Then her collarbone. Her shoulder. The very top of her chest. And that’s when she breathes in just a little too sharp. You lean back to admire your work — lipstick prints blooming across her skin like your personal signature.

She finally looks up. Slowly. Head tilted. “You done?” she asks, voice low. You smirk. “You look better like this.” Ada raises a brow. “You’re going to make me clean this off before my meeting.”

“Or,” you purr, “you could leave it. Let everyone know you’re spoken for.” Silence. Then she shuts the tablet. Stands up. And tosses you over her shoulder like it’s nothing. “Wh—Ada!?” She doesn’t even look back. “You wanted to see my reaction,” she says, calmly. “Here it is.” And just before the bedroom door slams, “You’re cleaning up your mess.”